Entwined
by junipper
Summary: Three Wardens survive - a power trio fronted by the Cousland spare. The Commoner's King refuses to lead and the silver-tongued mage tries very hard to keep from setting Ferelden on fire.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One: Green**

_Huron - White Hinterland_

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><p>From the highest point at Castle Cousland, one can gaze forever out at what seems like the entirety of Ferelden. The southwest guard tower brought forth a stretch of land, rising and falling with hills and settlements. The northeast tower, overlooking the breaking waves of the Waking Sea, offered nothing but friendly skies and the usual spatter of fishing boats – the salt in the air curling and wrapping itself across the thickened stone of the fortress walls.<p>

Surrounded by fresh green forests and built sturdy on its peak, Castle Cousland was a haven for all those who inhabited it. A friendly place, ruled over by the descendants of most Couslands passed, the fortress lead its people through each day with the reminder of peace and safety – and nothing ever felt astray. Dozens of service staff, humans and elves alike, kept things running smoother than the sands of their coastline – keeping the castle shining brightly as a beacon to all those who lived under its rule.

The reigning family—a handful of dark-haired, kind-faced nobles—ruled their estate with a pure compassion that left little to be complained about. Everyone seemed to love the Couslands, and although it seemed like a rather impossible task, Bryce and Eleanor had lead with just and generous hands that settled matters with the dignity and integrity required of those second to the Crown.

Their settlements were healthy, and the commoners were content with their daily workings – from the reeking fishmongers of the coast to the haggard hunters of the south. Things felt good by all standards, and the ever-present blue skies that breathed with sweetened air held Highever soft and tender, and all the portraits ever painted never truly captured the peacefulness that rolled throughout the green plains.

But now things seemed dire.

Fergus was miles away and Aedan was not to leave camp, and the younger Cousland was feeling numb and useless – staring out into the campground that hung heavy with thick southern trees. A near week of walking did nothing to ease the seething pain that throbbed in his head, all physical ailments healing tenderly, but still overshadowed by the memory of his mother holding his father as they both shuddered with the thought of what was to come.

The image was draining and although the ache was gripping him tight, Aedan felt empty as if someone had scraped out his insides. Having buzzed through his second time meeting the superfluous King Cailan, the moment feeling faint like a sad dream, the young noble had been left to his own devices. Duncan had taken the time to explain the nature of the Wardens during their trip south, but the words seemed empty in comparison to the ones already floating through the young lad's head.

The older man felt it would do the boy some good to be around a bustling encampment – take his mind off of things. Aedan seemed rather quiet from the moment they had met, but it was glaringly obvious that they boy was silently stewing in his own misery. Duncan did not blame him, but was growing increasingly worried that his words sent to soothe the hurt were going in one ear and out the other.

The young Cousland was a good combatant, but it would have been a shame to lose the lad to the first taint; his clotted gloom smothering the flame that lit even his father's eyes, like a forest fire that had been burning for centuries. The senior Warden had no fear that Aedan wouldn't survive the Joining, but it was not the first time he had seen a sickened recruit succumb to the sadness of a life lost.

Duncan hoped for the best possible outcome, sending the boy to explore and breathe freely for the first time in a long while.

A calm breeze swam through the hanging branches, prickling green leaves whispering behind the last few days of a long summer. His leather boots felt weak beneath his feet, feeling every bump of stick and stone with every step he took. Clangs of metal against metal rang through the woods, and the bubble of voices burst from the colourful tents that littered the site.

There was a sharp prickle of magic that burnt the air; bringing him back to the times the Circle had sent performers to the castle for some of their larger parties. Aedan had never been too taken with magic, as his father had never needed a mage advisor, and had not spent much time thinking about it. But seeing the bloom of white that burst from the fingers of the men in robes sent a thrill of appreciation – having already forgotten about the beauty that still blossomed across the world.

He met the kind eyes of a white-haired woman, half-interested in the chattering of a younger girl who was wrapped head to toe in yellow and green robes. The young mage was spinning a small ball of fire between her palms, weighting it in one hand before slipping it into the other. When she noticed that the older woman was not paying as much attention as was apparently necessary, the mage glanced his way.

"Oh!" She shook her hands free of the flame, as if she was drying them after a quick wash. "You look new! Are you a recruit?"

His voice, withdrawn and undemanding like it had been all his life, broke free of its cobwebs. "I'm sorry?"

"You're not buckled up like one of the King's soldiers, so I just—was it wrong to assume as much?" Her grin twitched almost apologetically.

"No." Aedan's voice nettled over the swelling pulse of the magic flourishing behind the women. "I am Duncan's new recruit."

"He's not a man easily impressed." The older woman started, voice gentle and warm in comparison to the girl's skittish dithers. "You should be proud." He summoned a grateful look, and nodded softly. "Allow me to introduce myself – I am Wynne, one of the mages summoned by the king."

"I'm Aedan." He addressed her lightly, quickly peeking at the girl who was already dribbling her own name. "Nice to meet you."

"I'm Solona." The dark-skinned woman burst, obviously very passionate about herself by the way she beamed like a pompous minstrel. "I'm also a recruit, so I guess we'll be working together!" She had fluffed herself up like a gaudy, plump bird - all loud and colourful beneath the swinging afternoon shade of the tree.

"Try not to over-stimulate the poor boy, my girl." Wynne breathed softly, wise eyes easily pinpointing the young man's fatigue. "Would you like us to have a look at that eye of yours? It must have been a rough journey."

"... Thank you." The young man paused again, finding a mother's warmth in her eyes. The feeling left a sick tear in his chest, and the awkward comfort swept away with a dull swallow. "It was a long walk."

Wynne sat him down beneath a tree and his legs groaned in approval. He had never had to walk such a distance before, considering his father had always allowed them to travel by horse or carriage. There was a jolt of fear that shot through him, wracked by the idea of never being able to move again. The muscles in his legs felt as if they were going to curl up and retire at the quaint age of twenty-four.

Her magic was soothing, like a bath poured at the textbook temperature. The swelling on the right side of his face started to creep away, and the tightness that had swathed across his skull faded fast. Solona was peering at him over the shoulder of the kind old woman, failing to flinch when he managed to catch her eye.

"You look very familiar." The young mage told him. "Now that your eyes not all swelled-up."

Aedan didn't fail to notice the smile twitch at the corner of the old witch's mouth. "Do I?" He asked.

The magic slipped away and Wynne stood to full height, glaring over her shoulder at the group of mages whose fog of creamy white had grown quite large. She tsk'd, and reluctantly excused herself – Aedan's discomfort heightening greatly when Solona crouched down in front of him.

It would have been nice to be able to rest for a little while before he had to go find the Warden named Alistair, but it seemed that the girl was persistent. Her kind palms found his shins and Aedan felt he needed to cower, but he could not find the energy.

"I have a thing for faces." She told him with an easy smile – her magic soaking through the hardened leather of the armour his father had commissioned for him. "You must be sore. Where did you walk from?"

There was a hot flush that ran up his legs and this time he did wince.

"Highever." The words shot out, all intelligent thoughts dying with the flash of fire that burnt him as he tried to pull his knees to his chest – stopped by the pacifying pleasure that soon fled from her warm hands. Her eyes glazed with some kind of recognition and she broke away from his stare.

"My family lives around Highever. On the coast, actually." Her bright eyes searched the swirling indentations in the rich armour – pumping wave after soothing wave through to his aches. "That I know of, anyway. Haven't seen them for a while."

Aedan couldn't find the words to continue on, but the mage seemed fine with his silence – working her magic into his tender muscles. They sat in a strange silence together, any tension drowned by the friendly banter of passing soldiers. Finding herself happy with her work, Solona leant back on her calves and glanced up at him.

"So I guess you have to go and find Alistair?" Solona asked and he nodded back. "Last I saw him, he was talking to Daveth. Do you need a hand standing?"

"I'm fine," The man pushed himself up the tree, the leather grating against the crumbling bark as his legs let out a appreciative yawn. "Thank you, mage."

"My pleasure." She held out her hand and he took it, hoisting her up to a stand. He could have sworn he could still feel the bite of her magic lingering in her touch, sticking to his fingertips when she let him go. Her presence was unsettling, her closeness clouded by the cogs turning behind her stare. Aedan had a feeling that she had figured out who he was—surely news didn't travel that fast?—but if she knew anything more than he thought she did, she wasn't hinting at it.

He decided to leave before she asked him any more questions and bid her goodbye. He left her brushing fallen leaves from her heavy robes underneath the shedding tree, turning one last time to find her watching him with those curious blues.

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><p><em><strong>AN: **Today my desktop computer finally died - RIP graphics card, you were such a bastard. Two days before Inquisition is due to be released here. I haven't cried yet but I have a feeling I will. So, I'm just going to publish this old hunk o' junk because I really love my two Wardens and need to numb the pain somehow._

_I've always written Solona as more of a companion, so Aedan will be lead boy. I've written each chapter as part of a pattern; Aedan, Solona, Alistair. So next chapter will be from the view of my lovely mage gal. I'd really like to hear back about this one because I'm not actively focusing on romance for the first time in forever, so any critiques are more than welcome. _


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two:**** Charred**

_Everything Is Good For You - Crowded House_

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><p>Solona felt as if she could conquer the world in her new boots. Maker, five years of wearing delicate mage slippers had dyed the skin of her feet a sweet rosy pink. Her thighs felt as if they were ready to fall right from the bone to hide in the comfort her new shoes, the supple leather supporting all sides—even the <em>ankles—<em>something she had strongly missed about the outside world.

Duncan must have slipped a word to the craftsman, because the grizzled old thing cornered her two days prior to measure her feet. He sat her down and planned with the lengths of his spindly fingers, giving her a gentle conversation about the artistry of women's shoes. It wasn't often he made boots smaller than the size of his hand, and besides, what kind of monster lets a circle mage run loose in the world in only her slippers?

Slightly uncomfortable moment aside, the man had done an incredibly decent job. It sure was nice to walk through the fresh breeze without it being just a sleepy visit to the Fade. It was actually real, all of it - even the horrid smell of a badly decomposed fox baking in the afternoon sun!

It sure was beautiful outside.

The older mages seemed rather nonchalant when they caught a glimpse of the real horizon, not just the glorified one all the runaways spoke of. Perhaps it was because they knew they were destined to return to the tower, that or to die on the battlefield. The way that some of them looked at her made her think that she was getting the short end of the stick – as if being a grey warden was worse than being the prisoner of your own body and soul.

She counted herself lucky regardless and spent the last few days before the battle bathing in the sunlight that shone from between the heavy leaves, calmly rolling that ball of fire within her palms when she felt no one was looking.

It was a sigh of pure relief, knowing that she could still do it – foolishly believing that her magical prowess had somehow been concentrated by all the magic and lyrium stuffed into the tower. Her magic had never been so powerful, even as a child, spells bursting with a new energy that must have come with a long-awaited lungful of fresh air. Solona had not realised how confining the tower really was.

It did have a plus side, she realised, faced with the dreary reminder that the outside world was far more flammable than she remembered. At least the stone did not light up and take to flames like the withered branches of the wilds did, especially after a significantly scorching summertime.

She had tried to explain that to Daveth, taking shade under an unfortunately charred tree while the senior warden took a vial of blood from their last conquest.

"Fire is a living thing, Daveth, it breathes just as much as you and I." She told him; annoyed by the casual way he folded his arms. "I can't just suck it all back where it came from, I just make the damned stuff."

"_Surely_ they taught you how to control your magic in that big, old tower of yours." The scruffy thug had been on her for days – firstly because of her gender, as apparently women weren't skilled enough to be grey wardens, and later because of her origin. He'd obviously never come toe-to-toe with a circle mage before, and Solona was having difficulty figuring out whether he was openly frightened or just plain daft. "They wouldn't let you out without knowing you weren't going to accidentally kill us all, right?" The archer continued. "Right?"

"I wasn't 'let out'," she reminded him, savouring the flicker of distress that crossed his face. "I was conscripted. I've told you this."

He shifted nervously as she glanced over towards Alistair – the blond shadowed by the shivery knight and the quiet nobleman. "Besides," she tried to ease Daveth's nerves, "I put it out, didn't I?"

"Barely." The rogue let out a strangled breath, trying to keep cool and collected. "You may as well've lit a signal fire for the darkspawn."

His own thoughts seemed to scare him, and he blanched in their silence.

The idea of being swarmed by the stinking creatures ran a delicate shiver down her spine, and the mage caught the attention of her superior. "Alistair!" She called, and the friendly face looked away from his conversation with the noble. "Where to next?"

"We go in deeper." He returned with his serious voice, stretching up and tucking the vial somewhere safe before nodding at the dark-haired rogue in front of him. Aedan took the lead without complaint, taking them over a small rise in the earth towards the crumbling pillars in the distance.

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><p>Returning to the camp an hour or so later, the recruits were slightly torn and mildly baked. Having been cornered by a swamp witch wearing the most glorious excuse for rags, they had retrieved the age-old treaties and had completed their minor goal. Next in line was their Joining ceremony, being prepared by Duncan and a few of the older wardens in their secretive little tent.<p>

Aedan was snacking on the butt of a bread loaf, breezing through a pleasant conversation with Alistair by the fire. Darkness was squashing the sun into the horizon and a chill had begun to seep into the smoky air, Solona enjoying the various buzzings of foreign insects that hid underneath their conversations.

She hadn't quite worked up enough courage to question the nobleman of his origins, but she had a funny feeling she knew just who he was. Her mother had kept a screen-printed portrait card of the Teryn and his family on their fireplace, and included them in her prayers each night.

He had grown since she had last seen him, but Solona was sure that her fellow recruit was definitely Aedan Cousland. He had the colours of his father and the build of his mother – tall and lithe, quaint features that pinched slightly feminine. Dark eyes, dark hair, and wrapped in expensive-looking armour that had been dinted and scuffed beyond repair.

One particularly bad summer, the shores of their village began to wash with slick oil that had burst from a fractured cargo ship offshore – the cramped fishing community suffering greatly. Her father and a few other men from the township had appealed to the Teryn's court for aid, and they received it – fast and efficient, before the townsfolk had time to starve and fall sick. The village had been forever grateful, forever devoted, and the portrait card sat as a reminder of the great Couslands who petted them with kind, gentle hands.

She sat and stared rather blatantly, awed by his presence. One thing was setting her back, an appreciation of reason, because there was no way by the Maker's sweet breath that Teryn Cousland would let his youngest son become a grey warden. It made absolutely no sense, and Solona chalked it up to be the strangest coincidence she had ever encountered. He must have been a noble, of course; he was too polite to be a street urchin like Daveth, and was far to smooth-skinned to be a knight like Ser Jory. His face was innocent, fresh, but his eyes seared with crushed embers – as if he had seen far too much to be a true nobleman.

It really was rather odd, and it made her more curious the longer she watched him. The times he would catch her glance showed her just how shy he was - shoulders twitching nervously when he caught her stare. It would have been sweet, if it weren't so bloody confusing. If anything, she argued with herself, he would have been a part of his father's army – who must have been gathered with the King's militia by the rendezvous point. There was no reason for him to be mixed in with the wardens around camp.

Her thoughts drifted, eyes fixing onto the scratched insignia on the noble's armour. Daylen, her eldest brother, had signed up to join the King's army a year or so before she had left for the circle. He must have waiting with the other men down below, shaking off the pre-battle jitters behind the swing of his greatsword. He had always been so proud of himself, and it would have thrilled Solona to have been able to see him before he threw himself wholeheartedly into combat. But Duncan had suggested against it – something about keeping focus on the main goal. She knew that Daylen would survive, as he had always been so strong and brave, and perhaps there would be time after the battle to sneak down and see him. Duncan didn't have to know.

The battle was looming however, and the minutes were ticking away. The recruits were awaiting Duncan's return, and the anxieties that came together with the unknown were beginning to needle themselves beneath Solona's skin. There was no knowing whether she would survive the night, and try as she may there was no way of forcing that fear away. The darkspawn were horrific-looking creatures, to say the least – lumbering through the wilds with their Maker-forsaken stench and dribbling with the black goo that she'd never be able to scrape from her robes. The thought of facing an entire hoard gave her goosepimples, puffed pores rippling down her arms and up her legs. Perhaps she wouldn't get to see her brother. Perhaps she'd never see anything again after that night.

Daveth flopped down beside her a moment later, offering a strange mixture of mottled cheese and jam to the young mage before stealing her away from her thoughts by voicing his own fears. As much as the thief bothered her with his small-minded ways, she still found him better company than Wynne or Ser Jory – and she was sure that he felt the same about her. They, unlike Ser Jory or Wynne, could hold a conversation that didn't end in dithers or motherly scoldings, and it seemed to be more than comfortable. They chatted softly for another half hour, the far light in the distance fading while the glow of the fire painted their faces.

Soon Alistair stood, coaxed by Duncan's signal – rounding up the recruits and leading them to a shadowy plateau, crumbling cobble spattered with the faded moonlight flitting through the rustling trees above. The mood fell sombre, and Ser Jory began to shake – the eldest recruit setting the lowest possible standard for the strength of the human spirit. She felt as if her bones were trembling, trying jumble themselves and leave her as a sad puddle between the stones, but there was no way that Solona would be out-wardened by a snivelling knight. She stood still, and proud, and felt only mildly wary when Duncan produced a well-thumbed chalice.

He read them their oaths, and a heavier chill slipped around their ankles like a furtive anchor. Drinking the blood of a Darkspawn? There was no escaping it now, and the knight's armour began to rattle slightly – the clinking pitching and mixing with the white noise in the back of her head. The commander's words hid beneath the empty sound of incredible fear, his dark, scarred hands gently offering her the heavy goblet.

Solona stared into the mixture, overwhelmed by the peculiar stench, blanching as she realised that the moment was real, not just a strange dream. Daveth was unsettled by the discovery, his thieving eyes sneaking a glance at the grimy liquid.

"Do I have to drink _all _of it?" She asked, and Duncan's response was just as stoic as she thought it would be. Just enough for a decent mouthful was not a difficult task, but her gullet was already beginning to seize at the smell. The mage let out a heavy breath. "Here we go." She drew in a nervous sniff, shoulders straightening and brave face pulled tight.

Cold silver met her worried lips and the woman took a tentative sip, an odd feeling soaking into her tongue as the drink met the back of her throat. It burnt, swimming to her stomach in an acid wash, and the darkness began to chew on the corners of her vision. Her legs finally gave out.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three: Beaten**

_Bottom of the River - Delta Rae_

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><p>He caught her by the neck of her robes before she had the chance to break her nose on the thickened stone – her laboured breathing sending dried leaves skittering away. The heavy tension that had been plaguing Duncan seemed to slightly dwindle, the two Wardens waiting beneath the filtered moon breathing a silent sigh of relief.<p>

Alistair lowered her gently to the ground by the pull of her clothes, letting her sleep off her curt condition as Duncan passed the chalice to Daveth. The colour in the archer's face was beginning to return, much less daunted now that Solona hadn't died a horrible death beside him. If the soft-skinned mageling passed her Joining, then there was no way in Thedas that he could fail.

The junior Warden sure was glad she didn't die, because that would have been unquestionably awful to watch. There was something so incredibly green about circle mages, how they seemed to shudder when a natural breeze rolled by, and watching one succumb to the taint before they could experience the breath of the real world was almost cruel. She slept as soundly as a person incredibly overwhelmed by sin could, out cold as the breeze swept a blanket of dead leaves across her back.

Daveth let out a heavy sigh, straightening himself to take the plunge into the unknown. His brave gulp soon gave light to all the warning signs – the way his throat seized as the mixture pooled into his gut, the instantaneous beads of sweat threading his hairline and the ghastly choke that made the two remaining recruits jump. Ser Jory began to openly tremble, and the young nobleman blanched lighter than the whites of the fallen archer's rolled eyes.

He collapsed beside Solona, fingers twitching gently as he buckled, awash with the taint. Aedan's eyes met Alistair's, brimming with a raw fear that the young Warden knew all too well. The quiet swept between them, drowned by a roar of ignorant happiness from the camp below. The remaining men stood in silence, idling in a breathy stalemate that soon proved too much for the looming redhead.

"No," Ser Jory cried out like a cornered kitten, backing himself against a wall. "There is no honour in this!" Duncan started towards him, offering soothing words in his delicate voice. "I have a wife and she is with child—! If I had known I would have never—!"

The knight drew his sword in rebellion—a last fight for his incredibly important life—and was soon bleeding out between shaking fingers, Duncan cleaning his blade before sheathing it wordlessly. Ser Jory slumped until he sat against the pillar, dead, but still staring off into the forest between the posts – eyes glazed with a distress that did not seem to want to leave. Aedan looked like he wished to flee into the miles of trees, and Alistair almost pitied the man. It was not wise to sympathise with a recruit, but by the Maker, he was rooting for him.

Young Cousland had the makings of a natural leader, and Alistair had figured that out the moment the lad had taken over their expedition into the wilds. While the remaining three recruits seemed happy to stand back, Aedan pushed them all through without a hitch, sneaky forest witch aside. It would have been a waste to watch the young rogue fall, and so Alistair pushed all his prayers onto the nobleman's shoulders and sent them to the sky.

The dark-haired lad seemed anxious, and had more than enough reasons to be. The throbbing pressure that had faded after Solona's survival had oozed back – spattered with the gore of Ser Jory and Daveth's demise. The taint had such a strange way of choosing the strongest, and those often picked for success fell to the unrelenting grip of the curse. Alistair's own joining had left him with the memories of the bleached stare of a bulky warrior woman, black arteries crawling from the neckline of her armour.

Aedan drank with a poise refined for aristocracy, and even as the strangling liquid sank to his gullet the rogue tumbled over with such grace that his landing put all the greatest actors to shame. Even as the horrific nightmares ripped through their thoughts, the survivors didn't shift in their sleep – even breaths whisping soft beneath the creaking sounds of the forest. Duncan was gazing into the goblet, the dregs of taint running black against the silver bowl.

The senior Wardens began their clean up, rolling the mage onto her back in a short attempt to comfort. Alistair had never seen a Joining ritual from the outside before, and it proved to be a lot more work than he had anticipated. Nothing could have prepared him for the overwhelming guilt that came with his steady hands under Daveth's shoulders, pulling him into a less compromising position so as he wouldn't feel ashamed in the afterlife. The archer almost seemed peaceful, even when his head flopped back to reveal the stitches of black creeping from the collar of his leathers.

Jory was another story altogether, unfortunately. His fear was understandable, because no sane person would willingly leap into certain yet incredibly necessary death with a wife and child on the line, but Alistair held a strong disdain for the dead man – heavy limbs leached of their life source dragging their knuckles across the coarse stone.

If there was one thing Alistair understood, it was that when duty calls your name, you owe it everything to give it your all. The Blight was, well, a blight on mankind's existence – and if it meant sacrificing your own life in a chance to save those of your wife and unborn child's, then well, it really was worth it.

Blood began to seep through the grit of the stone, running in a swift pattern towards the two young Wardens who were sleeping off their unfortunate hangover. Duncan's heavy eyes fell on Alistair, the young man straightening with respect.

"It is never easy," The old man started, taking a slight lean on a nearby pillar. "Watching a recruit fall to the taint. Their sacrifice will not be forgotten." Alistair nodded. "However, I fear I will live to regret Ser Jory's decision. Certain souls are not cut-out for our specific duty, my friend."

The young warrior nodded again, a strange feeling beginning to swim in his gut. "It's unfortunate, really." He started. "You'd think the impending sense of doom would light the fire beneath any able man's seat."

Duncan's lips twitched into one of his sly smiles, dark eyes peering at the two sleeping bodies washed with moonlight. "Sadly that is not always the case, Alistair." He wrung his hands together absent-mindedly, glancing back at his junior study before too much time was lost. "They will wake soon. Go and give word to the quartermaster, and have him ready a set of leathers for the two of them."

The blond man dipped his head in respect. "Of course."

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><p>Alistair was not happy. In fact, if he weren't such a gentleman, he would have kicked the helmet right off the shoulders of a nearby soldier just to sate the irritation that was bubbling in his chest. He knew <em>exactly<em> why he was not in the battle, nipped and chewed by the thought of his apparent anonymity being entirely non-existent. Duncan was a good man, sure, but he was stern – and the moment he had suggested that Alistair lead the two fresh Wardens to light the signal beacon in the tower, the warrior knew there was no chance to decline.

The thrill in the air was wound tight, and Aedan seemed to feed off it. The rogue led the three of them through the empty camp, and across the bridge that was already spattered with cocked archers and flaming chunks of debris. Solona was jittering with a pent-up excitement that Alistair could only tribute to exhilaration – something he was sure that circle mages had next to no experience of.

Their task was important, but it was not what Alistair had planned for his evening. It was his chance to prove himself—to test out his true strength—but once again he found that his blood held him back. The revered mother had kept him locked away like a sick prize, and now the Wardens sheltered him from any real chance of failure. There was never any breathing room for the poor lad, and his cheery façade was just a thin sheet of stained glass hiding a very nervous, stunted mind-set.

He had always dreamed of launching into a good battle, but the taste of triumph on his bitten tongue was only a fair wish birthed from long nights in the chantry barracks. Now that the chance had been presented on a silver platter, well, fate had a nice was of letting him know that he wasn't as necessary as he thought he was.

The young noble managed them with ease, the silence between the three allowing Cousland to steer them with his footsteps. It seemed as if he had mastered the art of control without the use of his voice, his gentle shoulders guiding them with a twitch in the right direction. Alistair knew that he would do well in the Wardens, donning his royal blue chequers with a natural reverence that he himself desired to recreate.

Passing a line of archers, the Wardens were blown back by a sudden explosion and Alistair was tossed onto his chest. The world rang around him, bruised by the dig of his armour against his shoulders and neck – and his vision melted the jittery scene in front of him, doubling and blending the flames that had crawled up the leather armour of a dead soldier a few metres away.

Aedan scrabbled up in front of him, now blessed with a skip in his step that drove them forward, faster, aiming towards the tower that stood in the distance like a giant waiting to be slain. The young mage groaned, not as padded as the other two, staggering up beside him to follow their leader – the blue hum from her fingers wiping the deep scratches from her cheeks.

The world around them was rife with chaos, and a strange feeling had been rinsed through the air. He couldn't place his finger on it, but put it down to the roaring buzz that was bleeding through his veins – the hoard below overwhelming his sensitivity to their presence. It had only been a few months since he had taken his Joining so he did not feel as in tune as the other Wardens, but the battle seemed plagued with the strongest whispers he had ever come up against. The whole bloody thing seemed so incredibly off.

Reaching the plateau, Aedan was flagged down by an aging mage and a skittish soldier. "Darkspawn in the tower!" The soldier burbled, shifting from foot to foot. "They came up from below – we were completely overwhelmed!" Solona shot a grim look at the familiar mage and Aedan straightened his back, turning to Alistair for a second opinion.

"We light the beacon, no matter what." He returned and the rogue nodded stiffly, setting his face into stone.

"Of course."

The trampled grass led them into a small battle fought at the tower's base – straggling soldiers gutted by stumbling genlocks, the woven steel of darkspawn weaponry leaving gaping slashes in their soft, human flesh. A fat drop of rain splattered the crown of his helmet, and then another, and another, and suddenly the sky began to cry down upon them – drops slinking through the grill of his helm to dampen his cheeks.

A roll of flames burnt past Aedan, swallowing a stray hurlock in a burst of light, followed by the hiss of ice smothering the smouldering trail. With a quick glance behind him, Alistair made note of the mage's positions and took charge – trying not to slip on the wet grass as his shield pushed up to meet the swing of a longsword. His own blade, precise and strong, swung to strike the side of the creature. It left a nice gouge in the chain, setting the genlock off-balance.

Young Cousland appeared behind it, setting a calm dagger into the soft, vulnerable spot of its neck before slinking back off into the battle. Alistair blinked, catching the tail of his padded coat as it faded between views – his vision soon tortured by another bright roll of fire that swept by from Solona's staff. The second mage took the water from the air and froze a hurlock, Alistair taking the opportunity to shatter it with his shield. It was an enlightening experience, peppering the slithering rogue with a fine coat of darkspawn crumbs – Aedan turning in shock to meet Alistair's unreadable helm with a weird grin.

Aedan spun back into battle; skidding beneath the swing of an alpha's axe – catching its attention and drawing it from the rough strike of a soldier, smooth steel dragging through the gap in its armour. The creature spun again, giving young Cousland time to send a thick boot into the side of its knee – bone buckling under pressure and tipping it off-balance. The knight pushed his sword through the between the plates of the garb around its neck and Alistair stood in wait, refusing to straighten his stance just in case he was needed.

He felt a rush of rejuvenation, the friendly ache of freshly squeezed muscles muffed by the warm magic that rushed over him. Aedan shuddered a moment later, the Warden warrior catching a glimpse of Solona as she lowered her arms, strapping her staff to her back. The rogue pushed them forward, slinging darkspawn muck from his gloved fingers to mix in with the messy grass.

Reaching the tower after a blitz of small battles, having saved a few soldiers along the way, the Wardens and their companions took inventory at the door. Alistair tipped his helmet back, freeing his vision with a slippery glove. "You say they're in the tower?" He asked the soldier, the man in splintmail nodding gravely.

"Yes, Warden." He breathed, eyeing his mage counterpart quietly. "They came from underground, took us by surprise. The tower's full of them."

"They shouldn't even be here." Alistair grit his teeth, complimented by the way Aedan tensed in front of him. "They're nowhere near the main battle."

"We're wasting time." Aedan grunted.

"Anyone need healing?" Solona piped up, sweet voice dulled by their dreary situation. "Before we go inside?"

Alistair pushed his helmet back down, greeted by the warmth of his own breath against the cool metal. "I'm fine," He said. "Let's just light this signal."

* * *

><p>An ogre. A bloody ogre at the top of the tower, lurking around the tinder pit in wait for whatever poor soul stumbled upon it. How in Thedas it managed to make it up the narrow stairways was beyond him, its heavy feet squeezing the innards from dead soldiers that littered the ground as it started towards them.<p>

"Shit." Alistair spat from behind a layer of steel. The night was getting better each second.

Solona let out a strange wail that caught the beast's attention, obviously never having seen one before and was understandably terrified. Having a mage as bait was not exactly the best plan, so Alistair beat the pommel of his sword against his shield to steal the limelight, letting their band of combatants split off.

The second mage slicked the floor with a sheet of ice and one of Solona's fireballs burst against the ogre's shoulder – its thick hands batting at the flames that charred its mottled skin, losing its footing to crash into to the cold stone. A well-aimed arrow shrieked past Aedan, courtesy of a hurlock sniper hiding in the shadows of the room – barb embedding in the shoulder of the elder mage, who let out a strangled cry from the shock.

Stumbling to its feet, the ogre swung at the rogue who was lurking by its shoulders – wary about approaching the beast, having never encountered something of its sheer size before. He flitted off to deal with the archers, leaving Alistair and the lone soldier to deal with the creature that was sprawling on the quickly melting black ice.

He took a meaty fist to his shield, the impact knocking him back a few steps as the soldier swooped in to thrust his blade into its thigh. The ogre snarled, using a thick paw to swipe up the offender, dragging him from the ground to pummel the warrior with its spare hand. The cries of the poor soul reverberated against the stone walls, a blue haze sweeping over him in a vain attempt from Solona to ease his grief.

A chunk of rock was torn from the floor by the elder mage, his strong magic swinging the lump towards the flailing darkspawn to catch it on the chest. It took a step back, dropping his conquest to howl forcefully – taking aim at the defensive mages hanging at the back of the battle. Alistair saw his chance, leaping forward and ditching his shield to jump at the ogre – his weighty gauntlet catching the rags of armour to pull himself up. Digging a heavy boot into its belt, the warrior pulled his arm back – pushing his sword through layers of skin, muscle and bone in an accurate shot at the heart.

He missed and it roared, taking a swipe at him and barely missing – his own heart thundering horridly in his chest. He pulled back messily and thrust again, pushing all of his weight into it in an attempt to throw it over. It stumbled, slipping on the ice and crashing backwards – the extra momentum driving his blade home. The world around him burst with a shattering silence, a stray arrow skimming from the chain of his armour and bouncing across the tiles. Soon there was a gargle and the sound of a retracted blade – the squelch of blood bursting from a fresh wound echoing in the otherwise blunt peace.

"All clear." Came the voice of the nobleman, Solona's murmurs soon bubbling on the other side of the room. Alistair pulled his sword free, quickly cleaning it on the rags of the ogre before staggering off towards the pyre. He was joined by the young Cousland - the rogue hovering behind Alistair as his shuddering hands fiddled with the fire. "That was… amazing." Aedan said, glancing across at his companion. "Good work."

"Thank you." The warrior shrugged, still finding time to get red in the cheeks. "You too." He struggled some more with the kindling, turning to find Solona stumbling towards them. He pushed his helmet back. "Can you-?"

"Of course." She stepped between them, the warmth of a fresh flame blooming from her palms. It burst into life in front of them, roaring with delight at its ignition – the pyre lighting up their faces with a sweet success. It took them some hard yards to get there, but they had done it. Duncan would be proud, Alistair having no doubt of that – knowing full well that taking a tower was no small feat.

He took to the window arch to watch the battle from afar, his companions splitting to return to their original tasks. Aedan was picking from the corpses around them, the mage returning to her mentor to help repair the struggling soldier. The glow of the battle below called to him, awaiting the sudden surge of the Teryn's army to even out the playing field – but nothing came. The fighting continued, no extra bodies added to the mix as the struggle remained constant.

The strange feeling in his stomach took its place, a sweaty nausea creeping up his spine. He squinted at the scene in front of him, only stopping when the snap-bang of steel against stone sounded from behind him.

There was a whistle and a thud, and Solona's voice pitched in terror. "Errol!" She shrieked, cut off as Alistair whipped around. She fell back to reveal a troop of darkspawn bursting from the doorway, an arrow pointing straight from her throat. Aedan sprung to his feet, taking three bolts to the chest before toppling backwards – the warrior throwing up an arm to deflect the barrage of arrows screeching towards him.

He backed himself against the wall, missing his shield that had been abandoned by the ogre's side. The crowd drove towards him, and Alistair was soon overwhelmed by a second bombardment of projectiles – the barbs nipping into the naked skin of his neck. There was a pinch of pain and he felt weak, losing the feeling in his legs – heavy knees hitting the solid stone. He fell just as easy as he thought he never would.

* * *

><p><em><strong>AN: **So I reread the original part three and wasn't happy with it, so I rewrote it. And rewrote it again. Here is my final product, and I've been a bit worried that my writing is unnecessarily complicated, so let me know if it's too much to deal with.  
><em>

_Thank you to everyone who has subscribed and favourited already! Hopefully now that I've got serious Alistair out of the way, I'll be able to get into the thick of things and flesh out the characters a little more. Also, should I put the rating up on this? I understand I have somewhat graphic violence, but I don't think it's M worthy just yet. Ah, let me know._

_Hope the holiday season treats everyone well!_


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